


Brief Encounter

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After breakfast, during which Sherlock tucked into his scrambled eggs with great enthusiasm – he must have been starved after his one and a half day fast – John installed himself in his chair with <i>The Times</i> crossword, while Sherlock sat across from him with his laptop. Every now and then John looked up to watch his friend’s face. His pale features glowed in the light cast by the laptop screen and John found himself appreciating their exotic charisma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rifleman_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rifleman_s/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful and totally lovely rifleman_s. Avid reader, insightful commenter and great friend. Thank you, "rifleman_s, for all your staunch support of my fics and those of all the other great writers here in the Sherlock fandom. I’ve worked very hard to get in a lot of things I knew, or thought, or assumed you would like in a hopefully not too obvious way. *hugs*
> 
> Beta: many, many thanks to the fantastic stardust_made. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.
> 
> Time setting: somewhere between S2.1 and S 2.2.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading.

“Right, I’m off then,” John announced, struggling into his coat.

Sherlock directed a languid gaze up at him from the sofa where he lay supine in a supreme impersonation of royally splendid ennui. John noted that the freshly-brewed mug of tea he had set on the coffee table when he came home from the clinic – to replace the untouched one that had accompanied the equally disregarded plate of toast and marmalade he had put down when he’d left for the clinic in the morning – was still exactly where he’d placed it before he went up to his room to change.

While buttoning up his shirt he’d contemplated offering to heat up yesterday’s leftover risotto for his flatmate, but when he entered the living room again one glance at the forlorn-looking, rapidly cooling result of his efforts to take care of 221B Baker Street’s resident genius sufficed to make him change his mind. 

Has he even _moved_ during the past ten hours, John wondered, involuntarily yanking harder than necessary at the scarf he was bundling around his neck. In the morning Sherlock had shuffled past the table where John was sitting, enjoying his breakfast and yesterday evening’s paper, without as much as an acknowledgement of John’s presence, to flop down on the sofa with the violin, from which he then proceeded to pluck one single plaintive note before – carefully – settling it on the floor. 

John had sighed and shaken his head in a gesture that consisted of equal parts disbelief, amusement, fondness and some quiet outrage. After finishing his own breakfast he’d plunked Sherlock’s on the table right next to him – with those long limbs of his he wouldn’t have had to even extend his right arm that far to grab either the mug or the plate – and gone out. His working day consisted mainly of listening to the usual – dull, according to some people – minor complaints, which appeared to dominate the lives of the majority of people living in Greater London. Two days ago they’d finished a case that saw Sherlock fling himself from a dock to prevent their suspect’s escape by motor boat, managing to drag the man into the Thames only to have his head nearly bashed in, which had then necessitated John’s jump to the rescue in yet another dip in the Thames’ waters. So right now mundane served John perfectly fine, and he’d closed the door to his consulting room at five with the contented feeling of a day well spent.

Now he was on his way for an evening with Brenda. Warm, lovely and intelligent Brenda, who hadn’t complained when he texted her five days ago to postpone their night out to an indeterminate later date; who in fact had not sulked on account of any of the times the same thing had happened before. They’d been dating for two months now, after literally bumping into each other at Tesco’s, John bending down to reach for the sugar, Brenda to reach for a packet of flour from the shelf on the other side of the aisle. Her smile—that was what had hit John right in the gut after they’d both shot upward and started apologising to each other. Brenda had the most beautiful smile. It quivered tentatively at the corners of her generous mouth for a second, like the sun hovering behind the horizon at the dawn of a perfect summer day, before breaking out suddenly to reveal the rows of her small, even teeth and light glints of amusement in her eyes, the colour of liquid gold. God, she was _bloody_ perfect. 

John fixed a final glare on his flatmate – who returned the look with a casual lift of his right eyebrow and maybe a slight curl of his nimble, long toes – before closing the door with perhaps unnecessary force and descending down the stairs.

***

In the restaurant Brenda was already seated at their table, gazing into the flame of the candle placed between the tasteful small flower arrangement and the salt and pepper set. She smiled at him when he bent over to kiss her lightly on the lips.

“Hello, John,” she said, reaching for his hand to give it a quick squeeze.

“Brenda, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you. How are you? No nasty aftereffects from your dip in the Thames?”

“I think I’ve become immune to it by now.” That made her smile again.

They chatted easily while browsing their menus and the wine list, then working through their starters. John was just quietly congratulating himself again on his good luck in meeting Brenda when she began. “John… I... John, this is such a lovely evening, as always. But you should know, I’ve been thinking and –”

***

John let the front door fall shut behind him with what definitely counted as too loud a bang. 

“Apologies, Mrs Hudson,” he called, but still couldn’t help clumping up the stairs, what with being angry, hurt and disappointed.

The glow of streetlight reflected feebly in the patterned glass next to the living room door. John’s intent was to carry on straight past the door and up to his room, but a faint stir in the room caused him to stop and look inside.

His gaze met a pair of slanted cat-like eyes scanning him from beneath the frilly overhang of dark curls.

“You’re back earlier than I expected,” Sherlock rumbled. His toes twitched on the sofa’s armrest.

“Yeah,” John breathed and shut the door. Right now he really didn’t feel up to an in-depth analysis of the many reasons why the affair with Brenda had been doomed from the start. Not with the person who was the main rationale for another failed attempt at something like a normal love life. Instead, John headed up the stairs to his room. He undressed and thumped the mattress a few times in frustration. The moment his head hit the pillow exhaustion overtook him. Grateful, he gave in to it and was asleep only moments later.

***

The next morning an apprehensive silence hailed John from the living room when he made a beeline for the comforting homeliness of the kettle, past an obnoxious arrangement of petri dishes, test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks. They’d materialised sometime during the night around the microscope that resided permanently on their kitchen table. A quick glance to his right provided him with the explanation for the strained atmosphere in their living quarters in the form of the back of the head visible above the plaid draped over the chair opposite Sherlock’s; the one John tended to privately label _his_ chair.

Once, a few months after they’d first settled into 221B, John had shared this sentiment with the current occupant of the chair, intending for their esteemed guest to lift himself out of the piece of furniture John had become quite attached to and deposit himself on the sofa, like most of their other visitors.

Mycroft’s answer had been a slight raise of his eyebrow. “I know this is your chair, John,” he’d countered in a perfectly flat tone, which managed to sound smug all the same. A deft flick of the wrist sent the umbrella twirling to emphasise his words, but otherwise the minor government official remained inanimate and –quite against John’s wishes – firmly seated. John had thrown his hands in the air and perched himself on the edge of the sofa. Sherlock, the useless git, had sat fiddling with his violin and refrained from starting an argument with his brother, even though for once John would actually have agreed with him doing just that.

“Morning, Mycroft,” John now greeted the head of immaculately arranged hair. “Has Sherlock offered you a drink yet?”

Sherlock sat glowering at Mycroft from the ramparts of his own chair. He appeared to have been quite busy during the time John had lain stretched out in blessed oblivion. This was proven not only by the state of their kitchen table but by his own state as well. He had obviously showered and washed his hair recently – the shiny, black strands curled around his face with the kind of casual elegance for which the average metrosexual bloke would dish out a hundred and fifty quid so he could spend hours in a chair at _Atherton Cox_ ’s. Sherlock, John knew, had produced the effect just by ruffling his damp hair a few times. 

From the vantage point of John’s chair Mycroft probably glared back at Sherlock before twisting around to fix John with a smile that lacked conviction. “Good morning, John,” he returned affably enough. “I’m sorry to say your good influence on my little brother has yet to expand into the realm of hospitality. No fault on your part, I hasten to add.”

“Oh, okay,” mumbled John. “I’m making tea. Or would you prefer a Nescafe?”

Mycroft shuddered. A flicker of alarm flared up in his eyes. “Tea, please, John,” he answered in a tone of barely contained shock. “No sugar.”

“Dieting again, Mycroft?” Sherlock contributed to the conversation. “When will you ever grow up and accept you were doomed to be fat since you stole your first strawberry tartlet from Mummy’s tea table?”

“Just a splash of lemon,” Mycroft completed his order with a slight nod in John’s direction, effectively dismissing him. Ignoring his younger sibling, he started an earnest contemplation of the pocket watch he’d produced from his waistcoat.

John sighed, rubbed his hand over his face and pivoted on his heels to see to the needs of their guest as well as his own.

“Tea will do me fine as well, John,” Sherlock called out after him. “Three sugars, _please_.” Surely he had to be the only person alive who was able to magic the idea of courtesy out of the word and forge it into another piece of armour in the ongoing war of the Holmes brothers.

For an instant John considered not making him tea – _let the bloody git fend for his own_. But seeing that this would just result in a quietly smirking Mycroft and a (less quietly) sulking Sherlock, John undertook the elaborate search for three mugs that were both presentable and moderately clean.

“You do realise I can order you after your latest exploits,” he heard Mycroft inform Sherlock in quiet undertones. 

“After saving your sorry behind?” Sherlock shot back. “I don’t think so, brother dear. Or are you going to threaten me with a knighthood again?”

“Certainly not. If anyone in this room deserves a knighthood, it’s John, for his willingness to put up with your shenanigans.”

“Here,” John interrupted the hostilities. “Your tea. I’m off to have a shower.”

With another deep sigh he pulled the door to the kitchen shut, reducing the sound of the brothers sniping at each other to a gentle murmur. If Mycroft was still around after John’s completion of his morning ritual in the bathroom, he’d head down to Speedy’s for his breakfast. Yesterday’s wound still smarted, too fierce for him to be willing to endure another display of Sherlock’s deliberate and rude pertinacity. It would be a sharp reminder of his own pig-headedness in sticking to London’s most annoying flatmate.

***

When John sneaked a glance through the kitchen door after his shower his gaze met the wavy top of his friend’s head bent over the microscope.

“Is Mycroft gone?” John asked, just to be safe. 

“Thank God, yes,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed around the next time he visited. For a few moments before he finally lifted that fat arse out of your chair I was afraid he’d manage to accomplish his mission.”

“What?”

“He must have decided it was in the interest of the Nation to bore me to death, obviously.”

John huffed out a breath. “ _Obviously_. What did he come round for? A new government scandal?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I? I stopped paying attention the minute he walked into the room.” Sherlock raised his head, surveying John with the thoughtful look of a sculptor, who was deciding where next to chip at the stone with his chisel and hammer. “You’re still upset,” he concluded at length. “Don’t be. She’s not worth it.”

“She actually is.” John came to Brenda’s defence hotly. “What do you know about it?”

“Not much,” Sherlock acceded in an easy tone. “But I know she’s a fool for breaking up with you. You’re probably the most decent man she’ll ever run into.”

Well, that was kind of nice to hear, John supposed, even though he’d have preferred the circumstances to be different.

“So far I’ve only known four women who exhibited a modicum of good sense,” continued Sherlock, folding his arms across his chest. “Our Nanny, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Elizabeth Bennett.”

“What?” John spluttered, goggling at his flatmate, whose countenance in that moment was the spitting image of his despised elder brother. “Molly? Don’t you mean Irene Adler? And Elizabeth Bennett, she isn’t even a real person. How do you even know about her? You hate watching telly.”

“My parents wasted a lot of money to have me educated at, according to the brochure, ”a top notch, blue chip, full boarding, all boys’ school”, John. It was hell. Science and music prevented me from going mad; oh, and the occasional glimpse of a sharp mind, even if it could only be found in a book.”

“Jesus,” John muttered. “You _are_ crazy, you know that? I must be crazy myself for putting up with you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “But then, I’m still waiting to meet a sensible man.”

***

After breakfast, during which Sherlock tucked into his scrambled eggs with great enthusiasm – he must have been starved after his one and a half day fast – John installed himself in his chair with _The Times_ crossword, while Sherlock sat across from him with his laptop. Every now and then John looked up to watch his friend’s face. His pale features glowed in the light cast by the laptop screen and John found himself appreciating their exotic charisma. The bottom lip that was now being worried by Sherlock’s sharp teeth reminded him of Brenda’s mouth; the beautiful mouth that he’d loved kissing, drawing that plump piece of flesh that resembled Sherlock’s so much – except Sherlock’s lip was fuller and in all honesty more perfectly formed – into his own to nibble at it, suck on it, taste the sweetness of her. Meanwhile his hands would skim down her back, to end up roaming over her backside, which was generous and firm. She would chuckle, low, close to his ear… _Oh damn_.

He’d blown it, again. A lovely woman, and he’d driven her away because of his stupid git of a _flatmate_.

Except, who was the stupid git here?

“The answer to forty-five across is ‘mind reader’, John.”

“How do you,” John began, only now realising he had indeed been looking at that clue while his mind wandered over the various attractions of Brenda/Sherlock.

The worst of it was that ‘mind reader’ was correct.

***

In the fast fading light the letters of his book started to dance in front of John’s eyes. He checked his watch: seven thirty. On cue, his stomach began rumbling. He closed the book and pushed himself up from his chair. In the kitchen Sherlock’s dark head was a shadow hovering over the light of the microscope through which he was peering intently. He didn’t look up at John’s approach.

“What shall we do for dinner?” John asked.

“Hmm.”

John walked over to the drawer where they kept their collection of takeaway menus. “I don’t feel like cooking so takeaway it is. Indian or Thai, what do you prefer?”

“Hmm.”

“Sherlock. I’m talking to you.” 

Sherlock’s face lifted from the microscope, eyes luminous and vivid, fixing John with a sharp look. 

“I heard you perfectly fine, John,” he said. “I’d considered the question of dinner earlier today. I’ve booked us a table at Angelo’s for eight o’clock.”

“Oh,” was all John could manage, dumbly. “I see. That’s good.”

“We haven’t been there lately and you like his pasta _alla Norma_.”

“Yes… uhm, yes, I do.”

“Fine.” Sherlock rose and buttoned up his jacket. As ever, he looked meticulous in his sharply cut dark grey suit with a cobalt blue shirt stretched tightly across his chest. If John was entirely honest he’d have readily conceded that his flatmate looked devastatingly attractive. For a man, his brain hastened to add.

And since he wasn’t gay, as he kept telling half the country in no uncertain terms, there was no reason why he couldn’t admire his friend’s appearance. Any man with eyes in his head would have to admit Sherlock’s lean form exuded an aesthetically pleasing grace.

“John?”

Sherlock was waiting for him, coat donned, scarf slung casually around his neck. 

“Right,” John said, reaching for his own coat. “Angelo’s. Excellent. Brilliant.”

***

A candle was burning merrily on their usual table. Upon their entrance Angelo rushed out of the kitchen. 

“Sherlock!” His big meaty hand grasped Sherlock’s long fingers cordially, another heavy hand landing on a thin shoulder. “And John.” John was greeted with equal warmth. “Your table is ready. Not working tonight, are you?”

“No. I texted you we didn’t want the candle. You know John doesn’t like them.”

“Oh, leave it be,” John heard himself say when Angelo started moving his bulk to correct his mistake. “It doesn’t bother me that much.”

Angelo shot Sherlock a triumphant look. “Told you, didn’t I?” he exclaimed in what was obviously meant to be a whisper, but boomed around the restaurant with the loudness of an announcement to all passengers waiting on a Tube platform. “The candle always works. I knew he was your type the first time you brought him here. This calls for champagne, I think.”

Sherlock’s response to their acquaintance’s enthusiastic rambling was a shrug of the shoulders. “Just serve us our usual red,” he requested. “John will have the _alla Norma_ and the scalloped veal for me.”

Once they’d seated themselves Sherlock dampened his fingertips with a quick swipe of his tongue and extinguished the flame. John’s eyes had latched onto the captivating view of his flatmate’s slender fingers in front of his mouth and he almost whimpered in disappointment when the softly flickering light died.

“I really don’t mind,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock cut him short. “You _do_ mind. I don’t understand why you let other people’s ideas bother you so much, but the fact remains that you do. Your life would be so much easier if you could just accept most people live for nothing but gossip and watching inane telly.”

“That’s…”

“Disdainful, dismissive, and the actual truth, as you well know.” 

With the same deft flick of the wrist Mycroft had used to spin his umbrella, Sherlock unfolded his napkin, proceeding to arrange it carefully in his lap, thereby effectively ending their argument. John decided to give it up as a bad job. Instead, he stared at his friend in the ambient light of the restaurant, wondering, not for the first time, whether he was truly as insensible to all the insinuations as he always seemed to be.

Did he really have no idea… at all? What was it Mycroft had said to him at the palace? ‘How would you know?’ Right then Sherlock had looked so wounded, but also vexatious, as if he was daring Mycroft to explain in front of that stuck-up lackey what exactly was so important about sticking various body parts into various orifices. For of course that was what sex came down to in the analytical mind of Sherlock Holmes. It was all about the flowers and the bees; and being a chemist, he would know about the endorphin rush in theory, but then he enjoyed those on an almost daily basis through the life he lead. No reason for him to go chasing after a bed partner.

 _‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’_

_‘All right... Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’_

_‘I know it's fine.’_

_‘So you got a boyfriend?’_

_‘No.’_

Sherlock had stated his disinterest in anything to do with sex quite plainly almost immediately after they’d first met. 

Still, he must have been curious once, as a teenager. Every adolescent went through that phase in which they discovered their own body, the body of others, the fact that other people actually _had_ bodies. What you could do with that other person’s body, how good it made your own body feel... Sometimes John thought he could still feel the ghost of the first kiss on his mouth. The tentative brush of his lips over Alison Taylor’s was a memory he cherished. After the kiss she’d smiled at him and dragged her fingers through his hair, then told him she considered him ‘sweet’. Surely Sherlock must have had a similar experience some time during his teenage years. There must have been girls or boys, or both, who’d been able to recognize beneath the outward guise of a gangling, abrasive geek the man that would one day mesmerise the world’s leading dominatrix into showering him with dinner invitations.

Their wine was brought and Sherlock poured them their glasses. 

“Cheers, John,” he said and proceeded to take a sip. John watched the glass come away from Sherlock’s lips leaving them moist, then his Adam’s apple bob slightly down the pristine ski slope of his throat. Sherlock’s fingers played with the stem of his glass after he’d placed it back on the table and John had to repress the sudden urge to grab for them, squeeze them, like he’d had Brenda’s yesterday before she told him. Sherlock’s hands were bigger, certainly, but then he was a big man. They were also slender, and with their tapering fingers, almost genteel. John knew what his friend’s hand felt like in his – they’d never been afraid to touch each other – but he was astonished to find he craved a different kind of touch. He wanted to press Sherlock’s fingers and guide them to his lips to touch them one by one with wet, open kisses, using his lips in full. After making love to each finger he’d take the hand to pull Sherlock towards him, bending Sherlock’s upper body over the table. Then he would place his other hand at the back of Sherlock’s head – nestling it in that downy featherbed of silken strands – and he would demonstrate to Sherlock what he had missed out on in his life so far by treating him to the best snog John had ever had the pleasure of sharing with someone.

“One pasta _alla Norma_ and one scalloped veal.” Angelo placed their plates in front of them with the smooth motion of the accomplished burglar he had once been. “Oh, your candle.” He produced a box of matches, relit the candle before Sherlock could protest, and pivoted on his heels to see to the needs of another table.

“It’s fine, really,” John said. “He’s determined we should have a romantic evening so we might as well play along.”

Sherlock snorted and cast John an enquiring look. John’s response was to start cutting his spaghetti with great determination. This was a Watson family habit Sherlock had reproved him for in the past, explaining the best ways to make use of your fork and spoon to eat the dangly threads of food. Since John had ignored the advice Sherlock now refrained from commenting, dedicating his attention to his veal instead. 

Surreptitiously, John eyed him from beneath the safety-screen of his eyelids. 

_He’s exquisite._ The thought popped up in his mind, seemingly out of nowhere. John shook his head to send it spinning far away from him.

After yesterday evening’s disappointment, another blow to his male pride, he just wasn’t feeling like himself. He’d had let his hopes up, once again, only to have them smashed all over again. Some things one just never got used to, no matter how often they happened.

***

Well, that was the way it worked, John supposed, but it was still disquieting to wake up the next morning to discover he had actually soiled his pyjama bottoms like a sixteen-year-old and remember the erotic dream featuring his flatmate.

***

Just. Jesus fucking Christ. He was not gay, was he? And even if he was… Sherlock! Of all people in the world he was the last one to be interested in having it off with John. Not that John was interested. Not one little bit.

***

In the dream it’d felt so good, though.

***

Thankfully when he went downstairs afterwards John found a post-it note in Sherlock’s nearly illegible scrawl, stuck to the kettle. ‘Off to Bart’s for kidneys.’ 

This morning John could definitely do without his flatmate, regardless of whether he was annoying, attractive or distracting in any other way. Too bad John’s next shift at the clinic wasn’t until tomorrow. At present John really didn’t want to be around Sherlock too much. The man read him like a book and John would have very much preferred to keep the volume closed.

After his morning cuppa and toast he took a long cold shower, dressed and resolved on an impromptu trek up to Hampstead Heath. He just needed to wear off his excess energy. As the weather looked fine he packed a towel and his swimming shorts as well. The lakes were bound to be icily cold at this time of year. That would help him to cool off.

That evening he returned feeling pleasantly tired by the exercise. They ate their dinner in a companionable silence. John spent the rest of the evening with his book in his chair, while Sherlock spent his doing something horrible to his stash of kidneys, as ever in the so-called name of science.

Shortly after eleven John called it a day. He bade Sherlock good night, receiving a distracted snort in lieu of an answer, and prepared himself for bed. It wasn’t until he was settled under the duvet that he realised how knackered he was. Contentedly, he congratulated himself – no untoward fantasies were likely to invade his dreams.

***

_“Sherlock… just… how…”_

_“As eloquent as ever, John,” Sherlock said, but he wore a slightly panicked look, yet also eager, intrigued. His mouth was parted and panting, just like his whole long, flowing form pressed back against the wall by the sofa where John had trapped him. John laid his hand on Sherlock’s nape, curls tickling the skin between his forefinger and thumb, and ever so gently he forced Sherlock’s head down, towards his own._

_Sherlock stared at him, out of those radiant orbs that were like rainbows half-hidden behind the gauze of his lashes._

_“John?” Sherlock’s suave eloquence was completely gone now, fled from his body as John’s lips reached his and started kissing them. Sherlock’s eyelids drifted shut; he didn’t kiss back but he didn’t push John away, either. He let himself be_ absorbed _by it, experienced it, testing and determining whether he wanted to continue this particular experiment or break it off. To prevent such an outcome John decided to bring in a new factor. Flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s mouth he licked at the soft flesh, caressed it, tenderly probed at it until the lips parted and John could explore the even rows of teeth, then past them. He hummed when Sherlock responded and inexpertly twined his tongue around John’s. Oh, but he was a quick learner._

_God, John had always enjoyed kissing a lot and Sherlock kissed like… like no one John had ever kissed before. But then he would, wouldn’t he, with a mouth like that? For what was that mouth but a living, walking advertisement for the act of kissing; maybe all the talking was really just the summons to have Sherlock shut up with a smack._

_Against Sherlock’s lips, John chuckled. Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “What…?” he breathed out. “What…?”_

_“Nothing,” John hushed him, soothing Sherlock’s anxiety with another tender press of his lips. “Nothing. Come here…”_

_Cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands he admired him before standing on tiptoes to kiss him again. “Maybe we should lie down,” he suggested._

_“Yes.” After having agreed Sherlock remained standing. John rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed down. All the air flew out of Sherlock’s lungs, as if he was a huge compressor and he fluttered onto the sofa like a rare exotic bird shot from the sky by a treasure hunter for its beautiful feathers. He fell with his legs open and John settled between them._

_“It will be all right.” He drew his hand down Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ll go slow, and you can tell me to stop any time, okay?”_

_“Yes.” Sherlock stared up at him, his eyes huge and trusting. “Yes, John. I understand. Could you… would you…”_

***

“Anderson, how many people have you been bribing lately to safeguard your continuing employ at the Yard,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock!” Greg warned in a growl.

“Oh, shut up, Lestrade. You must be one of them, or you wouldn’t allow him to bungle in and wreck your crime scenes every single time.”

“Sherlock.” Now it was John’s turn to rein in Sherlock’s barbed-wire verbosity. But oh, didn’t he look wonderful when he was all wound up like that, cheekbones glowing, curls swirling on his head while he flipped back the flaps of his coat to crouch down by the victim.

“John, look.”

John was beside Sherlock in an instant, kneeling close. His eyes followed Sherlock’s hands, skimming their trail over the body while his voice undulated in a constant, soft murmur. The corpse was still fresh, so thank God the smell that wafted up into John’s nostrils pleasantly wasn’t the victim’s, but Sherlock’s: clean and fresh, with a hint of the ridiculously expensive shampoo he used. John had once _borrowed_ it to see whether it explained the silken shine of his friend’s hair, but discerned no notable difference in the way his own hair sat on top of his head. Sherlock had sniffed the air when John walked into the room afterwards and had regarded him with curiosity, but had otherwise remained silent.

Now Sherlock drew air into his lungs so deeply that his nostrils widened perceptibly, then lowered his nose to the body and began sniffing, starting at the neck and moving down the arm towards the outstretched hand. 

At the corner of the room Donovan turned away from the scene in violent disgust. Sherlock ignored her in favour of whisking off one of his gloves to smell at his own hand. The tip of his tongue appeared between his half-parted lips and he gave his hand a tentative lick. 

‘What is it?’ John wanted to ask. He had just scraped his throat to pose the question when Sherlock grasped John’s left hand, drawing it in front of his face to study it with narrowed eyes. His nose twitched as he brought the hand even closer, a warm rush of his breath ghosting over the skin of John’s palm.

John shivered. 

“Jesus, at a crime scene.” Donovan’s muttering drifted to his ears. He was about to protest against the ridiculous accusation of her words when he felt the wet velvet of Sherlock’s tongue slide along the skin of his finger pad. Instantly, his full attention was drawn to his friend’s mouth. Warmth blossomed in his chest. Still holding it in front of his lips Sherlock angled John’s hand and lapped at it again with an open-mouthed, luxuriously long stroke. All the blood in John’s body travelled southwards when Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Barely managing to contain a moan John struggled to keep his own eyes open.

The next moment Sherlock let his hand drop to lift that of the corpse and treat it to the same procedure. 

“Here,” he said, thrusting the cold hand into John’s face. “Can you smell it?”

***

_The scent drifting up from the crook of Sherlock’s neck, that soft spot above his collarbone where he was all skin and muscle, smelt like heaven. A light spice of sweat, layered over almond soap and mingling with the perfume of his freshly-laundered shirt. John inhaled so deeply he felt his nostrils flare._

_Sherlock’s long fingers wandered over his back with uncharacteristic hesitancy. His own hand slid more confidently down Sherlock’s front, over his heaving ribcage and John found himself almost in the same uncharted territory as Sherlock, for the lack of breasts was… strange. But also exhilarating, so his hand dipped further down to flick open the buttons of the shirt right over Sherlock’s belly. The shirt fell open, fanning around the pale luminescence of Sherlock’s torso._

_John kept stroking the long lines of muscles rippling beneath the skin from Sherlock’s sternum to the waist of his trousers, touching, exploring…_

***

It was nothing short of _torture_ to have to potter around the flat, pretending nothing special was going on, just another normal day at 221B Baker Street, though thankfully without any smelly experiments, or fights, or explosions, or wall shootings, or any other inanities. Everything was just fine, except for the tiny fact that John spent whole days suppressing the urge to floor Sherlock midstride in one of his perambulations around their living room; wrestle him down to the carpet and start kissing him wildly, reaching down to unzip those tauntingly tight trousers – in his dreams they’ve already gone this far – and to watch, enthralled, as Sherlock shook apart beneath him.

At times John caught himself gripping the arms of his chair so tightly he was convinced he would strain every muscle in his hand. He forced himself to relax every time, but usually that was the moment Sherlock chose to twirl around in his dressing robe, the blue one, the one John liked best, to reveal the curve of his ass beneath his pyjama bottoms, the line of his soft and indifferent _cock_ , swinging about freely beneath the cloth. No doubt Sherlock regarded it as nothing but an efficient vehicle for the transportation of waste out his body.

John wanted to kneel down in front of Sherlock and fondle it.

He’d stroke it with his fingers through the fabric until he felt the first vague stirring of interest. Then he’d use his mouth, just nibbling and kissing until he discerned a definite hardness there and heard Sherlock’s breath quickening. His hands would support Sherlock, inviting him to rest that magnificent arse in the seat of John’s palms. Sherlock would hesitate, suddenly shy, but John would know it was because he didn’t dare ask yet for what he wanted…

***

 _…but that was what he had John for. His eyes shot wide open when John mouthed at him and he moaned. A delightful shiver of satisfaction slithered down John’s spine, straight into his balls. He tugged down at the stupid pyjama bottoms until they pooled around Sherlock’s ankles. His freed erection bobbed tantalisingly close to John’s mouth. The air around them filled with the heady scent of desire, lust,_ need _…_

***

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock’s voice intruded through his numb ears. John shot upright in his chair. “Huh… what?” he said.

“That was our landlady, John,” Sherlock informed him primly from behind his book. “Asking whether we wanted anything from Tesco’s. I told her I didn’t concern myself with this sort of thing. You can always go down to the shops later should we need anything.” Sherlock cocked his head to regard John with an inquisitive look. 

“You really ought to spend less time at the clinic,” he went on. “I’m beginning to believe you’re suffering from atrophy due to excessive boredom. You would have been quite useful yesterday when we chased that murderer through Leadenhall Market. If you had, you wouldn’t be drowsing in your chair now like an old man.”

Cut to the quick John rose, battling the slight stiffness of his limbs.

“We’re in want of sugar, actually,” he said in his most icy tone and stalked out of the room, throwing the door shut behind him with a mighty bang.

***

_Sherlock stiffened, his back arching, his whole frame taut. The next instant John felt Sherlock’s cock pulse against his tongue and he sucked and swallowed, savouring the bitter taste spreading from the sweet flesh in his mouth. Above his head Sherlock panted through lips grown slack; John would taste those later, cover them with a cocktail of semen and saliva, but for now he kept suckling at Sherlock’s glans, luxuriating in the pleasure of it, in Sherlock’s pleasure. Because this was his dream and in his dreams this was what they did it. Because they could._

***

The pub was quiet. No surprise, really, seeing as it was Monday night.

“Cheers, mate.” Greg raised his glass and downed half of it in one big gulp. “Ah,” he emitted, dragging the sound, then wiping his hand across his mouth. “That’s better. Jesus, I still can’t believe it’s only Monday. Whatever happened to the weekend?”

John had been given a glowing review of Greg’s weekend at the breakfast table. Sherlock’s and Greg’s grand outing, which had consisted of catching a homicidal maniac who liked offing people in increasingly inventive, and nasty ways, apparently. John had declined joining the investigation. He’d spent his weekend wallowing in self-pity, alternating between frantic bouts of masturbation and long, cold showers. Today had been a clinic day, thank God. During his lunch break he’d gone for a walk and decided he’d start looking for another flat. His close proximity to Sherlock was too unnerving. One of these days he’d give himself away, and he wanted to avoid the resulting scene at all cost. Sherlock would be so disappointed in him. John couldn’t bear the image of the confused look on his face. Their friendship didn’t deserve such an outcome. 

Oh, why, why, why did Sherlock have to be so goddamn attractive? And why, why, why did John need to have noticed it, and fallen in love with him?

“We missed you, John,” Greg continued. “We were bloody lucky both Anderson and Donovan were off-duty but Sherlock managed to insult Gregson at least eighteen times and Gregson didn’t take it all that well, let me tell you.”

“How often did he insult you?” John asked, nipping his beer. 

Greg shrugged. “I lost count somewhere around five,” he said with a wry smile. “But that doesn’t matter, I don’t really hear them anymore. He was nervous, I think. He kept turning towards the spot at his side where you’re usually standing, only to frown and start snubbing Gregson again.”

“Yeah,” John shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was busy, you know.”

“He mentioned that. Complained you were spending all your time at the clinic. It made me wonder whether there’d been a change of personnel.” He beamed at John, wriggling his eyebrows in expectance of a saucy story.

John felt the muscles of his face contract in a clear mockery of a laugh. “Sorry to dash your hopes,” he grimaced. “But it’s nothing like that; just busy.” 

Silence fell. John wondered whether he should elaborate. He took another sip of his beer instead. 

Next to him Greg coughed. “Look. I know he’s an enormous prat and he can be the world’s most annoying dick. It can’t be that easy, living with him. Hell, I’m glad I don’t have to. But well, he’s sharp, he’s always been sharp, that’s how we met, of course; but he’s even better with you around. I realise looking after him doesn’t pay the bills exactly and I know we don’t pay him but he never seems to lack for money, and if you set up business together…” The sentence dwindled into another silence.

“Yes,” John said. “I see your point. One hundred percent. But I happen to like my job. And I’m thinking of moving out, moving on, you know? Baker Street was great, a great place to find my bearings again, but it’s time I settled into my own flat, I think.”

“Oh.” Greg looked taken aback, his mouth hanging slightly open. “Jesus, you’re a dark horse, John. I always thought you were doing great in Baker Street. Mrs Hudson will be sad to see you go.”

“I’ll visit often enough.”

“You haven’t told her yet?”

“No, I haven’t. Sherlock neither. I’ve only just decided, to be honest.”

Greg nodded, his silver head glinting in the dusky light falling through the pub’s windows.

“Forgive me for sticking my nose into your business,” he said, “but that’s a big step you’re planning. And you make it all sound a bit like a rash decision. I’m not saying it is, mind. Just, you should think it over really well.”

“Yeah,” John mumbled. Christ, if only Greg knew the real reason he was thinking of moving out. It was the last thing on Earth he wanted to do. But it was for the best. All Greg’s gentle admonition had managed to accomplish was to make him feel even sorrier for himself. 

Great.

***

_“You don’t have to.”_

_Sherlock chuckled, his breath ghosting over John’s abdomen, and John wanted it. He wanted it so much. “I’m perfectly aware of that, John. But I can, if I want to?” The question mark affirmed John’s wish._

_“Yes.” Before the syllable had left his mouth, Sherlock engulfed him and began to suck with hollowed cheeks. He gazed up at John from beneath the fluttery lace of his lashes. He was beautiful with his mouth full. John sank his fingers in the luxuriant whorls of hair to steady himself. No woman’s mouth had ever felt so good around his cock; no woman had ever made him feel so good. A sound wrung itself from his throat when his orgasm tore through his body, the waves crashing over him relentlessly._

_His friend guided him down on the bed where John kept making sounds like sobs, empty and spent._

_“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice holding a note of uncertainty that made John want to dissolve into sobs even harder. “Wasn’t it good? What did I do wrong?”_

_John reached for his face, drawing his fingers over it, from the wild riot of curls over the jutting cheekbone, down to the generous curve of his chin. “No,” he said. “You did nothing wrong, Sherlock. Nothing at all. It was… Christ, I have no words for it.”_

_“But?”_

_“We… us. This is madness, that’s driving us apart. This isn’t you; you’re a fantasy that could never be real. If you knew what I’m thinking while we’re sitting in our chairs you’d despise me.”_

_Sherlock, this Sherlock, stared at him wonderingly. He gulped. “I don’t understand,” he said, his tone flat. “I thought you wanted this.”_

_“God, yes.” John grabbed his friend’s hand. “Sherlock, I do, but we’ve got to stop. I’ve got to stop.”_

***

John’s own shouts woke him up. He sat up in his bed, terrified for a moment that Sherlock might have heard him. His heavy breathing subsided as his ears prickled but all they could pick up was the sound of the city turning itself over in its sleep: a car rumbling past, a drunken shout in the distance. Inside the flat silence reigned. Maybe Sherlock was awake but even if he was, he didn’t so much as stir. 

When they had first moved into the flat John had still been suffering from nightmares. Gradually they had subsided until they were all but a distant memory. Definitely unpleasant, but firmly relegated to the past. Still, Sherlock had to remember them; if he’d heard John’s cries now he’d surmise them to be a return of the nightmares, nothing more.

Scrubbing a hand over his face John turned to flick the switch of the bed light. With a sigh he rearranged the duvet on top of him.

Unbidden, the memory of a conversation with Greg popped up in his mind, conducted shortly after the soon to be former Mrs Lestrade had first announced she was going to live with the PE teacher.

“You know,” Greg had said, “it isn’t even the sex I miss the most. It wasn’t that good anymore, to be honest; I was so strung out half the time. But it’s the companionship, having someone to come home to and share your dinner with, talk. That’s what I miss. I mean, you’re a good mate, John and so is Donovan really, and Dimmock, but a mate is still different from a friend. I thought Karen was my friend. Well, maybe that’s where it went wrong.”

He’d sighed and stared down into his pint and John had nodded as if he understood what Greg was talking about and made the appropriate comforting noises.

Christ, but he was a fool. He did understand after all. He _had_ a friend, goddammit, and he was about to give him up for what? Lust? No, not just that – love that was but a false chimera? 

“It’s got to stop,” he muttered. “It’s got to stop.”

***

In the kitchen Mrs Hudson was busy turning sausages and tomatoes that sizzled enticingly in the pan. Toast popped up out of the toaster.

“Morning, John,” Mrs Hudson said. “I decided to come and serve Sherlock a proper breakfast after all the running around he’s done last weekend.”

“That’s great, Mrs Hudson.” John pecked their landlady’s cheek. “Do you want any help?”

“No, thank you, dear. Or you could check whether the table is properly laid. Sherlock said he’d do it, but you know what he’s like.”

“Yes.” John smiled.

In the living room Sherlock sat at the table, hidden behind his newspaper.

“Morning, John,” he echoed Mrs Hudson. He snorted. “Can you believe this? They managed to misspell both the killer’s and the names of two of his victims. Idiots. At least you never make such stupid mistakes in that blog of yours.”

“You’re enjoying yourself immensely already,” John retorted, walking back to the kitchen to get two forks, the salt and pepper, and the marmalade. “I heard you were supposed to lay the table.”

“I hadn’t finished yet,” Sherlock’s voice rose behind him.

“He’s been sitting there grumbling over that paper for the last quarter of an hour,” Mrs Hudson whispered with a wink. “Here are your plates. I must go now, my crocheting class starts at nine thirty.” She whisked off the apron and hurried through the door.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” John called after her. He carried the plates to the table together with the pot of tea she’d prepared for them, and their mugs.

“I hope you had the decency to thank her as well,” he told Sherlock, depositing a plate in front of him.

Sherlock lowered his newspaper, regarding John for a while. “She loves fussing over us,” he announced at last, raising his right eyebrow slightly. In disdain or enquiry, John couldn’t decide, for Sherlock’s ‘us’ was still ringing loud in his ears.

“I know she does. That doesn’t mean you can’t thank her every once in a while.”

“You bought her flowers last week. She assumed they were from both of us so I’ve thanked her.” Folding his newspaper, Sherlock accosted John with his ‘innocent’ look. He reached for the teapot to pour them their tea. 

After some quick contemplation John chose to forgive him. He really didn’t know any better. And Sherlock had stated he considered Mrs Hudson one of the few sensible people he’d ever met, so he had to esteem her highly. 

“Did you have any plans for today?” John asked, digging into his tomato.

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock replied, spearing a piece of sausage with relish. “I might pay Molly a visit. She sent me a text about a third-degree burn that might prove interesting. Could be a ploy to lure me to Bart’s, though. I haven’t been there for a fortnight, I think.”

The words were tossed out casually. John had suspected Sherlock was well aware of Molly’s crush on him long before he deduced the revealing Christmas present. And yet he also considered her to be one of the few sensible people he’d ever met. Would Sherlock ever stop astonishing John?

Sherlock’s text alert sounded. After Sherlock had explained it to him John now recognised it as the opening chords of Masetto’s aria _Ho capito. Signor si._ from Don Giovanni, so it was Greg. Poor man.

“A triple murder in Stoke Newington,” said Sherlock. “All victims found in the same building, but unrelated to each other as far as the police can tell. Sounds interesting.” He downed his tea and went for his coat. John stood up as well.

“Do you want me to come along?” he asked. Sherlock turned on his heels and fixed him with his stare.

“Would you like to?” 

“Yes,” John answered. “If you think I can be of help.”

“You’re always of help. Come along then.” Sherlock bounced down the seventeen steps, John following close on his heel.

“We’re off, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock shouted, having instantly deleted her crocheting class in his exhilaration of the impending game.

On their doorstep he halted momentarily. “John,” he said.

“Yeah,” John breathed.

“Thank you for coming back.”


End file.
